


You Made It

by angelsandbrowncoats



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Scheming and Plotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandbrowncoats/pseuds/angelsandbrowncoats
Summary: When Oswald cannot find Martin at the orphanage one day, he discovers that the boy has been adopted. It doesn't take him long to discover that the man who adopted Martin is none other than his ex-friend and unrequited love, Edward Nygma. He doesn't know what Edward wants with the boy, but his imagination has a few ideas, each less pleasant than the last. He can only hope he's not too late...





	You Made It

**Author's Note:**

> So guess who traded out fall decorations for winter/Christmas ones over break?
> 
> I've been having lots of holiday fic ideas, and I hope I finish more of them. This one was a joy to write, so I hope it's a joy to read!

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Oswald tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the receptionist to give him her full attention, “Where’s Martin? He missed our Wednesday appointment.”

 

“Martin?” the receptionist asked.

 

“Yes. You know, about so high, mute?”

 

“You haven’t heard? Martin’s just been adopted!” she smiled, “Isn’t that wonderful? That sweet little boy will finally have a caring home all his own.”

 

“He – what?” Oswald blinked, “I mean, yes. How wonderful. You wouldn’t – You wouldn’t happen to have the records of whom…? It’s just, Martin left some books in my office and I would return them… He had little enough to call his own, you know.”

 

“Of course!” she exclaimed, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Cobblepot. A minute, if you will.”

 

Oswald waited while she disappeared into a back room, fingers tapping against his thigh. Adopted? He somehow hadn’t considered the possibility. He’d just assumed that Martin would always… be there. A feeling of betrayal welled up inside him that he quickly quashed. Martin didn’t _choose_ to be adopted, and besides… who could say that he wasn’t feeling just as betrayed that Oswald hadn’t done it himself? Oswald had just started to think of Martin as _his_ and he never stopped to think that perhaps he should make it more _official_.

 

“Here we are,” the receptionist spoke cheerfully as she handed over a sheet of paper still warm from the printer, “Name and phone number. I’m sorry, but I can’t give out any more information. Integrity and all that. Good luck, though.”

 

“Thank you,” Oswald replied shortly. He could threaten her into giving him everything, or go over her head to Sophia – although he no longer trusted their friendship enough to confidently say that would work – but he did neither. He would call the number and explain the situation like a regular citizen. If that didn’t work, _then_ he could consider violence. _See?_ He thought to himself proudly, _I am learning._

 

He took the piece of paper and immediately froze.

 

_Énigme Prince_

All thoughts of peaceful resolution vanished from his mind. Oswald’s fingers tightened around his cane and the paper, an odd combination of fury, concern, and something he’d rather not call regret coursing through his veins.

 

It was so simple, so obvious, so _stupid_ \- !

 

Énigme.

 

Enigma.

 

E. Nygma.

 

That damned man! Between his desperate need for attention and his now laughable intellect, he was going to get himself killed, and – if he wasn’t careful – the rest of Gotham along with him. And Oswald knew well and good he wasn’t careful.

 

But the lingering worries he pretended he didn’t harbor for Edward’s safety paled monstrously in comparison to his concern for Martin. If Edward had been counting on Oswald’s love for him matching or even, perhaps, _exceeding_ that which he felt for the boy, he was sorely mistaken. Marin was more or less his son, now, and Oswald cared for him with the same intensity his mother had once cared for _him_. No unrequited love – a traitor, no less! – could hope, nay, could _dream_ of achieving that level of care. If Edward had harmed so much as a hair on his head, so help him…

 

As soon as he was in his limo, he snapped open a burner phone and dialed the number of the woman he’d stationed in the fight club – or, more specifically, on Edward’s tail.

 

“Where is he?” he barely contained a shout, completely forgetting the etiquette and pleasantries that had once been so deeply ingrained in him.

 

“Same little apartment he’s always at, on a day off. Want me to text you the address?”

 

“Yes. But first – is there a child with him? A boy?”

 

Silence followed, although Oswald only allowed a second and a half to pass before he barked, “Well?”

 

“Yeah, actually,” she answered, and he could hear the confused frown in her voice, “Yeah there is. I was gonna report – “

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“What?”

 

“The boy! Is he okay? Is he hurt?” Oswald assumed Edward had taken him as some sort of hostage, but with his brain all fucked up, there was always the chance that he intended to use Martin as an example, that Oswald might even now be too late –

 

“Oh, yeah, he’s fine, I think. I obviously can’t see everything but it looks like he’s watching television while Nygma… bakes?”

  
“Bakes?!” Oswald’s stress levels were dropping and spiking like a roller coaster, but the last time a nemesis of Oswald’s had baked around Martin, it had involved people pies and death threats, “What is he baking?”

 

If it was a pie again…

 

“I can’t be sure, but it looks like cookies. Christmas cookies, maybe?”

 

Oswald sagged in his seat, relief overshadowing his confusion as to _why_ his ex-friend was baking Christmas cookies instead of writing threats in the form of, presumably, more shitty riddles.

 

“Alright. Send me the address. Zsasz and his crew will meet you while I confront Edw – Nygma. Seeing the back up might make him jittery and I won’t risk the boy. Don’t interfere unless I give Zsasz the signal. Understood?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good,” he hung up without another word, his driver already on the way to the Narrows until his phone buzzed Oswald conveyed Edward’s precise location.

 

Oswald double-checked the blade in his cane and the gun well-hidden on his person before stepping out of the limo onto the ramshackle street. It struck him that being the Penguin in the Narrows was probably _more_ dangerous these days than being Oswald Cobblepot at Edward Nygma’s… what? Quarters? Home? _Lair?_

 

He shrugged it off. Zsasz and his crew had eyes on him. He’d be safe. His focus needed to be entirely on Martin.

 

Number 503, the text had said. Oswald thanked his mother for watching over him as he saw the rickety elevator next tot eh stairs. After a heart pounding three minutes of listening to the contraption screech and creak, he was stepping out onto the fifth floor, staring down Edward’s – green, because _of course it was_ – door. He raised a fist, glaring at his white knuckles and trembling hand, a dead giveaway of how much he cared, before bringing it down hard.

 

Knock.

 

Knock.

 

Knock.

 

There was rummaging on the other side of the door, and it was in that pause that Oswald realized there was honest to god _Christmas music_ coming from within. And then the door opened and Oswald felt his heart stop because this was _Edward_ before him. _Edward_ , the enthusiastic, slightly pathetic nerd whom Oswald had originally met. His hair was flopping over his eyes, the brown depths of which gleamed with unprecedented warmth. He was wearing a familiar green sweater, and for some reason – perhaps the universe was demanding some twisted form of tribute for granting him the use of the elevator earlier – a streak of glitter was stuck to his cheek.

 

In short, he was gorgeous.

 

The moment he laid eyes on Oswald, he smiled – too large and _much_ too genuine for Oswald’s liking. It only increased his appeal.

 

Oswald looked him over once, fully, to buy time. Edward’s appearance screamed domestic, soft, _vulnerable_ , and – strangest of all – _welcoming_. If not for the alarm bells blaring in his mind, Oswald might almost mistake Edward for a housewife, welcoming his husband home after a long day at work.

 

He swallowed, burying each one of those thoughts and sealing them in, before opening his mouth to speak. Edward beat him to it.

 

“Oswald!” he cried out cheerfully, “You made it!”

 

He stepped back, gesturing for Oswald to enter, “Come in! Come in! The cookies aren’t cool enough to decorate, yet, but we’ve made good progress on the tree!”

 

Oswald wracked his brains for some frame of reference as he crossed the threshold into the tiny apartment. What was going on? Was his crush turned enemy seriously inviting him in for a bit of Christmas decorating? Where was the animosity? The mutual distrust and betrayal?

 

“Could I offer you a mug of mulled cider?” Edward asked as he shut the door behind them, “I’m on my third one, myself!”

 

“No thank you,” Oswald frowned. Surely even this new, dumb Edward knew Oswald wasn’t idiotic enough to accept a drink from his – frankly unstable – enemy.

 

“Suit yourself,” Edward shrugged, picking up his own mug, and it was the last Oswald noticed of him for some time as his gaze fell on Martin, scrutinizing the contents of a box.

 

“Martin!”

 

The boy turned around, unhurried, as if he were completely at ease. His face lit up when he saw Oswald and he signed, ‘Hello,’ before returning his attention to the box.

 

Oswald frowned.

 

“Martin?”

 

Martin glanced up at him, eyebrows raised in the silent question.

 

“I – I – um, are you alright?”

 

Martin’s brow scrunched up and he tilted his head before nodding.

 

“E – Mr. Nygma… he’s been treating you well? He hasn’t hurt you?”

 

Martin shook his head, scribbling something on the pad. He held it up to Oswald, who scanned the drawing. If he was interpreting it correctly, it showed Edward and Martin decorating the apartment and Edward giving him a present.

 

“He gave you something?”

 

A nod.

 

“What did he give you?” Oswald tried, for Martin’s sake, to keep the suspicion and fear out of his voice. He doubted he was successful.

 

Martin nodded with excitement this time, taking Oswald’s hand and leading him over to the tree. Oswald had to consciously restrain himself from giving a fond sigh as he saw that it was a futile belief to think Edward might refrain from decorating an already green tree with more green. Martin ignored the garish décor and knelt down beside it, reaching past the wrapped packages sitting there to retrieve something.

 

He held it up in triumph when he found it, before extending it for Oswald’s inspection – or, a part of him hoped, approval.

 

It was a dagger, Oswald saw. That much was clear. But he also suspected, due to the complexity of the handle, that it was something more. The handle appeared to be a series of rotating cylinders, each inscribed with a series of characters. Oswald thought he had once seen something similar in a museum, or perhaps it had just been Edward’s old apartment.

 

“It’s a wheel cypher,” Edward said from behind him. Oswald jumped, having nearly forgotten whose apartment he was currently standing in.

 

“A wheel cypher?”

 

“Yes. You see the figures etched into the blade?”

 

Oswald peered closer at the metal and found that Edward was right. Tiny numbers, barely deep enough to be seen, had been carved into it.

 

“They’re equations. If one can solve the equations, they find the code. Enter the code into the cypher and find the password, align the password with the design in the hilt cap, and the blade will carry an electrical charge. Not strong enough to kill, of course – I thought I might upgrade it when he turns sixteen.”

 

Oswald blinked. He glanced from Edward to the dagger to Martin and back to Edward again. He blinked again.

 

“What?”

 

“I _said_ – “

 

“I heard what you said,” Oswald snapped, “So you just… decided to give a powerful weapon to the child being trained by your enemy?”

 

“Enemy?” Edward raised an eyebrow before shaking his head and smiling again, “Martin is such an intelligent boy, with so much promise. He’s learned so much from you, and I know I did, too, but I hope there’s _something_ I can teach him.”

 

“You? Teach? But your brain – “

 

“Lee has been an immense help on that front. I still have some work left, but I am nearly back to my – well, not my _old_ self. Lee made me compromise. I progress the way she wants me too, and in return, I get to progress at all. You know, I think she was right, too. I haven’t felt this happy since… well, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this happy! Isn’t that wonderful?”

 

Oswald was completely lost at this point. Lee? Lee Thompkins? _She_ was directing the course of Edward’s future now?

 

“That’s not to say she won’t let me get a little blood on my hands every now and then,” Edward smiled, “I haven’t changed _that_ much. I just… can only go after people who deserve it.”

 

And like that Oswald’s guard was back up.

 

“And I suppose I deserve it?” he asked, voice low enough that he hoped Martin wouldn’t have to hear, “That’s why you took him, isn’t it? You knew I would come for him, and then you would have your chance to kill me. Clever. You really have gotten your brains back.”

 

Edward’s smile widened at the compliment and Oswald internally cheered that the simple manipulation tactic had worked.

 

“But, please, for Martin’s sake… don’t do it in front of him?”

 

Edward gave a small laugh, “Oswald, you have entirely the wrong idea. I didn’t ask you here to kill you, I – “

 

“You didn’t ask me here at all,” Oswald muttered.

 

“Nonetheless, I invited you. With a clue. And I _invited_ you here to partake in some Christmas traditions with me and Martin. I’m sure you’ve had many more _real_ Christmas’ than the two of us combined, and we would appreciate your expertise. And your company. We figured out the tree well enough, and the cookies – although you’re in time to frost them! – but we’re at a loss as to what else one should be doing to celebrate the holidays.”

 

Oswald handed Martin his knife back before he dropped it in shock.

 

“E – Edward, may I sit down?”

 

“Of course,” Edward laid a hand on his upper arm, steering him towards the couch with a gentle pressure and sinking down beside him when he sat, “And you can call me ‘Ed’, you know. I always liked it when you called me Ed.”

 

“I distinctly recall you shoving a gun in my face for doing just that.”

 

“I wasn’t myself back then,” Edward muttered, glancing to the side, “And I’d rather not think about that time. I’m not that man anymore, and I never want to be again.”

 

Oswald didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

 

“Oswald?” Edward said, and _why_ did he have to sound _worried?_

 

“Oswald? You look… off. Are you sure I can’t get you any cider? Or anything?”

 

“I – uh – “ Before he could decide whether his need for a drink outweighed his suspicions of Edward, a mug was shoved into his hands by much smaller ones. Martin stood in front of him, looking insistent.

 

‘It tastes good,’ he signed.

 

And Oswald couldn’t refuse _now_ , so he took a sip. It _was_ good, and he said as much, laughing involuntarily at how pleased Edward looked afterwards. The warmth seeped through him and calmed him slightly. What had he been so concerned about, again? Edward behaving strangely, of course. But… strange wasn’t necessarily bad, he thought, as he took another sip. Edward seemed more like the man he’d eaten takeout with, back when they’d first become friends, then anything else. He didn’t seem to be scheming, and he had somehow acquired Martin’s trust, but his demeanor also wasn’t as _uncharacteristic_ as to make Oswald wonder if he had been subjected to the twisted therapy that had brainwashed him so long ago. His men were ready if anything went south, so Oswald decided there could be no harm in staying as long as he was welcome. He wasn’t sure what to do about Martin, yet, anyways, so he may as well observe the situation first hand.

 

A timer dinged across the room and Edward leapt off the couch, skirting the counter that separated kitchen from living room as he checked the cookies cooling on the racks.

 

“They’re ready!” he exclaimed, and Martin all but dragged Oswald over. He examined the cookies, finding plain and solid sugar cookies cut into holiday-themed shapes. Candy canes, trees, stars, and…

 

Oswald sighed, glancing between the two and noting their guilty smirks.

 

_Penguins._

 

Before he had the chance to comment, Edward was cracking open cans of frosting.

 

“What could we possibly need so many for?” Oswald asked.

 

Edward rolled his eyes as if it were obvious, “Coloring, of course! I have plain white, red, pink, green, _dark_ green, dark _gray_ , and yellow. And then red, green, yellow, and purple sugar, and red, green, and chocolate sprinkles. Ready to decorate?”

 

He was rubbing his hands together, like the melodramatic supervillain he was, Oswald mused.

 

“Alright,” he said, picking up a star that was about the size of coaster, “I’m game.”

 

It was more pleasant than he’d imagined. His own mother had only ever made kolacky for Christmas, an old family recipe. They were delicious, certainly, but Oswald could see the appeal in cookies designed to be decorated, especially for young children. Martin seemed to enjoy getting the colors wrong on purpose, Oswald noted, watching him frost a candy cane solid gray and then proceeding to speckle it with green sprinkles, before starting on a red tree. Oswald tended to go for accuracy, having lost much of his artistic inclination a long time ago and never having much – beyond fashion – to begin with. Edward, predictably, was decorating everything in shades of green.

 

Oswald had just finished layering the white and gray on a penguin when Edward leaned over him and snatched the cookie off his plate.

 

“Hey!”

 

Edward didn’t reply, only leaned over in concentration and tapped what looked like a couple of long, thin straws before handing the dessert back. Oswald stared down at the cookie, which now sported tiny, detailed features made of sugar crystals: a yellow beak, green eyes, and a purple bow tie.

 

“A bow tie?” he said, for lack of anything better to say.

 

“You’re always dapper,” Edward replied, returning to his own green monstrosity without further ado.

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes,” Edward sighed, pausing in his quest to precisely drop individual green sprinkles onto his candy cane, “You’re the Penguin, you know.”

 

Oswald couldn’t help but let out a laugh; perhaps it was the words themselves, or perhaps it was the matter of fact tone Edward had uttered them in, but the phrase struck him as hilarious.

 

“What?” Edward asked indignantly, pushing his glasses back up his nose and leaving a smudge of green frosting on it in the process. Without thinking, Oswald reached up to wipe it off and sucked it off his finger. Why was Edward staring at hi –

 

_Oh._

 

Oswald froze, eyes darting around as he searched for an explanation, anything, but he came up blank.

 

Martin elbowed him, and he glanced down in time to see him sign, ‘Wash your hands after you lick your fingers. It’s the rules.’

 

Both adults burst out laughing, the tension gone, and Oswald headed for the sink before resuming his creations.

Edward had baked an ungodly number of cookies, and it was well over two hours before the three of them managed to finish decorating everything.

 

“So,” said Edward as they collapsed onto the barstools around the counter, “That’s the extent of my holiday knowledge. How else to people celebrate?”

 

Oswald sipped at his second mug of cider as he pondered the question, “Well, my mother always had us hang stockings over the fire. She used to tell me this old tale, about a man named Nicholas who would jump from rooftop to rooftop and drop gold coins down the chimneys of struggling families. Sometimes he’d bring other things, too. Each year, she’d sew me a new stocking out of scrap fabrics, and she had an old one for herself. We’d hang them up and on Christmas morning there was always a gold dollar and some fruit and candy in them. If it was a good year – meaning that we weren’t struggling to afford at least two meals a day – we would build a gingerbread cottage. And we would fold up paper and cut out shapes to make snowflakes.”

 

“We can do that!” Edward jumped up, energy somehow restored as he threw open one of the two doors that led to what was presumably the bedrooms. Less than a minute later, he reemerged with a stack of heavy paper, pencils, and three pairs of scissors. He swung his long legs back over the stool he had occupied and spread out the supplies on the counter. Oswald took up a sheet of paper and folded it up into a triangle, eight layers thick. He turned to Martin to show him the best way to fold it, and explain how to draw little geometric shapes around the edges. Edward seemed to have it figured out, so he let him be.

 

They worked in near silence for about ten minutes, the only sound being the scrape of the scissor blades and Edward humming along to the Christmas songs that were still playing in the background. Finally, Oswald finished his own and unfolded it, watching his creation reveal itself.

 

“That’s wonderful,” Edward complimented, and Martin nodded, before holding his own snowflake out for inspection. It was actually more detailed, although Oswald supposed that had something to do with having smaller hands and the intense concentration that only children and the truly passionate every seemed to capture.

 

“Even better than mine,” Oswald was more than willing to lavish the boy in praise, knowing no other way to parent, “You must be a natural!”

 

Martin smiled shyly before pointing at Edward and raising his eyebrows.

 

“Of course,” Edward cleared his throat and unfolded his own paper.

 

Oswald nearly choked on his cider. A practically perfect circle, adorned with delicate spindles, framed a tiny paper scene consisting of six penguins on an ice floe.

 

“How?” he asked, robbed of the ability to ask complex questions. Edward couldn’t quite keep the pride from his voice as he replied, “I’ve been practicing scherenschnitte for nearly ten years, now.”

 

‘Scherenschnitte?’ Martin wrote on his notepad.

 

“The art of paper cutting,” Edward replied, and the boy nodded as if that explained everything. Oswald shook his head, “You never cease surprising me, Ed.”

 

“Is that a good thing?” he asked.

 

“I think so,” Oswald replied, standing up and stretching. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Edward also stood, slipping around the counter to snatch up one of his green on green candy cane shaped cookies and taking a bite out of it. Martin was already on his second tree, and Edward snatched up a star – also green – to hand to Oswald. Their fingers brushed as he handed him the cookie, and Oswald couldn’t help the flutter in his chest. Up close, he couldn’t help but notice that damn glitter that wasn’t just on Edward’s cheek, but in his hair and on his sweater, as well.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered, not wanting to break whatever sort of enchantment had been cooked up to make him dream this evening – for it had to be a dream, did it not?

 

“You’re welcome,” Edward replied, equally soft.

 

Their eyes were drawn towards the counter at the sound of tapping. Martin was knocking on the cheap surface imperiously, and when he realized he had their attention, he pointed at the ceiling above their heads.

 

Now Oswald _knew_ it was a dream, because nothing this cliched ever happened in real life. One simply did _not_ end up under the mistletoe with the unrequited love of one’s life.

 

And said unrequited love _certainly_ didn’t lean down and brush his lips ever so gently over one’s own lips while reaching up to lay an almost reverent hand on one’s cheek.

 

Except that Oswald knew how to tell reality from dream and this was _definitely_ reality. Which meant that this entire night – Martin, cookies, kiss and all – were part of some grand scheme, some plot, that couldn’t possibly end in anything except more heartbreak and pain. And Oswald was _damned_ if he would let Edward play him like this. _Again_.

 

So he did the only thing he could think to do and fled.

 

For a moment he thought he had gotten away, as no sounds immediately followed him down the stairs (the elevator was too risky, being slow and old where Edward was young and possessed the _longest_ of legs), but then he heard a door slam and Edward called his name.

 

“Oswald! Oswald, please! Come back!”

 

No! He wouldn’t let himself be taken in like this. He didn’t know what Edward was planning, but he had witnessed enough to set his mind at ease over Martin. Edward wouldn’t hurt the boy. Oswald was sure of it. Which meant his duty was fulfilled and, no matter how cowardly it was, no matter how disappointed his mother would be, he would run.

 

He made it out of the building and was halfway down a side street by the time Edward caught up with him. He should have known better. Should have had his limo waiting, should have tried to throw Edward off, should have _known_ Edward could outrun him in a simple chase on foot.

 

One of his _stupid_ , slender hands closed around Oswald’s shoulder and he pulled his knife from his cane.

 

“Leave,” he spat. Edward removed his hand and raised both, taking a step back in surrender as he pleaded, “Just hear me out! Please?”

 

“No! I’ve had enough of your words, Ed. They’re all just part of your elaborate word _games_ and I’m _not_ going to play! Whatever you want from me, just ask me. Straightforward. No games, no riddles. Ask me for what you want and I will give you my answer. Never manipulate me like that again!”

 

“I – “

 

“No excuses,” Oswald said flatly, “Now go away.”

 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

 

Oswald stumbled backwards, hand flying out to brace himself against the wall behind him, “ _What?_ ”

 

“Will you go out with me? On a date.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“Make up your mind, Oswald.”

 

“What?!” Oswald regained his balance, taking a step forward, ready to lecture Edward on how his feelings towards him were perfectly understandable, not – not _wishy-washy_! But Edward spoke before he could.

 

“You _just_ told me to be straightforward about what I wanted from you. To just ask. So I did.”

 

“I – you – what?”

 

Edward sighed, “You said to just ask you. So I asked: will you go on a date with me? You promised to give your answer.”

 

Oswald froze, caught in his own trap. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to find a way to talk himself out of this. Edward was just _toying_ with him – it was obvious – but if Oswald did the sensible thing and said _no_ , Edward would call him out for lying, and –

 

His train of thought was cut off as Edward dropped to his knees in the snowy alley, clasping his hands in front of him as if in prayer, “Please give me another chance. Lee’s helped me so much; I – I’ve come to terms with what happened between us. Our fight. I can’t explain what I was thinking and feeling over the past year – I hardly understand a fraction of it myself – but I do know what I’m thinking and feeling _now_. I want you, Oswald. Any way you’ll have me, I want to be yours. I’ve wanted that for… for a very long time, if I’m being honest with you. And maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe you’ll just hurt me again and again. You wouldn’t be the first. But I _want_ to believe you could care about me. And – and now I have friends I could turn to if – if something goes wrong. So shouldn’t I at least _try_ for a second chance? I – I don’t forgive you, but I’ve moved on. And here and now all I want is to fall asleep beside you, to raise Martin with you, to help you train him to fulfill his potential, to… be held by you. I want it all. And maybe you don’t want me anymore, but I at least had to _try_ , right? To convince you that this life could work for us?”

 

He bowed his head, as if to accept Oswald’s judgement, “So will you? Will you let me try again?”

 

Silence descended on the alley as Oswald considered him. That speech was… raw. Too raw and emotional to be part of Edward’s plans. He was at least as guided by his emotions as Oswald, but he always tried to hide them. They would never feature so heavily in one of his schemes. Which meant…

 

This had to be genuine.

 

A deep _want_ , a craving, an ache crawled its way up and down his spine and he shuddered. He wasn’t strong enough to resist if this was merely a temptation. He knew himself well enough to admit that.

 

He opened his mouth and stopped. He had been about to offer – well, more like _insist_ – that Edward and Martin move in with him at the mansion. But as he turned the idea over in his head, he realized that it may not be the best choice. If Edward really _was_ out to get him, it wouldn’t do to let him in quite so far so fast. And even if he wasn’t… perhaps they had simply been moving too fast last time. Edward seemed to be thriving in the Narrows – or as close as anyone did in this trash heap. And whatever Lee was doing was obviously helping. Maybe he needed this. It pained Oswald to think of Martin having to live in such a decrepit building, but he trusted Edward to take care of him. Perhaps he could even spend time at the manor while Edward was working. It wasn’t ideal, but maybe it was… right.

 

“Dinner. Seven o’clock. Your place, so you can’t be late this time,” he said shortly. Edward’s entire body lit up and he practically hurled himself out of the snow and towards Oswald. He wrapped his arms around him, kissing significantly harder than he had before, but Oswald was much more willing this time around.

 

“Thank you,” he breathed. Oswald shifted uncomfortably. It sounded wrong, being thanked for this.

 

“I want a second chance just as much as you do,” he settled on, “So if you must thank me for accepting, then thank _you_ for offering. I never would have seen your change of heart otherwise.”

 

“It wasn’t a change of heart so much as an end to being willfully blind to my heart,” Edward replied, “Things just spiraled out of control last time.”

 

Oswald felt significantly better about his decision to take things slowly.

 

“Now come back inside, please. It’s not exactly safe for you to be wandering the Narrows. _Especially_ you.”

 

“I know,” Oswald sighed, making no move to follow Edward back.

 

“Martin will miss you if you leave.”

 

Oswald narrowed his eyes at the blatant manipulation but followed anyway. Edward slipped his hand into Oswald’s when they fell into step beside each other.

 

“It was Lee’s idea, you know,” he broke the silence.

 

“What was?”

 

“Adopting Martin. She’s Sophia Falcone’s sister-in-law, remember? They meet up for coffee sometimes. I had… admitted to having feelings for you, and expressed a desire for reconciliation, but I said I didn’t know how. When Sophia mentioned your attachment to a boy, Lee suggested I adopt him. Sophia agreed to help with the paperwork, since I’m obviously a wanted man, and my name is – anyway, I shouldn’t have been able to adopt. She arranged it on Lee’s behalf. I was… hesitant, to say the least. I’ve never been fond of children, and I was shocked when I heard of your little… protégé. But he really is the most amazing child, is he not? He’s absolutely brilliant! Did you know, he activated that dagger in six minutes? That’s twelve math equations – not simple ones, mind you - _and_ a wheel cypher puzzle that he completed in six minutes. I’m not even sure I was that good at his age…”

 

Edward’s gushing praise trailed off as he bit his lip, peering up at the perpetually cloudy skies of Gotham. Oswald didn’t know the details of Edward’s childhood, but he had his hunches. He squeezed Edward’s hand and stroked it with his thumb. In response, Edward pressed closer to his side and sighed, before leading him into the building.

 

By the time they were back in the apartment, they found Martin curled up on the couch, the remaining third of a cookie in his limp hand as he slept. At the sound of the door closing, he blinked awake. He neither signed nor wrote when he caught sight of Oswald, merely jumped up and wrapped his arms around him.

 

Oswald was slightly surprised – Martin was not the most tactile of people, certainly not as much as Edward – but he patted him on the back.

 

When he stepped back, Martin signed, ‘Are you staying tonight?’

 

Oswald glanced at Edward, who glanced away bashfully and murmured, “If you want to.”

 

“Yes,” Oswald answered them both, and he was rewarded with two blindingly bright smiles.

 

Martin yawned not long after that and Oswald felt an immense content as he watched Edward usher him off to bed. Once he was asleep in the second bedroom, Edward joined Oswald on the couch with another mug of cider for each of them.

 

“I never expected you to say yes,” Edward admitted, “I hoped, but… I couldn’t imagine why you would.”

 

“You said you’ve moved on from what I did to you,” Oswald said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I feel much the same way about what you did to me. A part of me understands. A part of me finds your ‘betrayals’ justified. But it is just a part. Many other parts insist that you have insulted me and should pay – as if you haven’t already. Or they give reasons and excuses for what I did to you that make your actions unforgiveable. I imagine you feel much the same. But you’re right. That is in the past. We’re as even as we’re ever going to be, and it’s time to think about what I want in terms of the present and future, not the past. And I didn’t have to think to find my answer. When I fell in love with you, I knew you would be the love of my life. My one true love. Call me old-fashioned, call me an idealist, but I believe that we all have only one true love. Or, at least, if we truly love someone, we can’t just… _stop_ loving them. We can’t fall out of love. Whether I act on it or ignore it, I will love you until the day I die. That is simply how it is for me. I planned on ignoring it, because what else could I do? You didn’t love me. To pursue you would only bring needless pain to the both of us. But then you gave me the opportunity to act. So _of course_ I agreed to a second chance with you. Can you understand that?”

 

“I can,” Edward said softly, and he sounded as if he were holding back tears. Oswald wrapped an arm around him, encouraging him to bury his face in Oswald’s neck.

 

“So your grand scheme really was just adopting a child I cared about and luring me into your lair to eat cookies and sing Christmas carols?”

 

“Well…”

 

“Brilliant,” he said, and though his tone was dry, he felt Edward swell ever so slightly with pride. He pulled Edward further into his arms and held him like he had asked in the alley, petting over his hair as Edward curled his ridiculously long limbs up.

 

“Merry Christmas, Ed.”

 

“Merry Christmas,” came the sleepy reply. Oswald realized the danger as Edward's eyelids drooped and, as he didn’t fancy losing all feeling in his legs overnight, took the opportunity to say – perhaps with an unnecessary amount of suggestion, “Shall we take this to your bed?”

 

He had never seen a man so tired get up so quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> One month ahead of time is a good time to start in on the spirit of the season, right? Should I do an Edward Nygma quick-fic advent calendar? Short fics written in one sitting for each day leading up to Christmas (I say Edward because I've recently been converted to [non-Gotham] Scriddler, so I can't promise exclusively Nygmobblepot). Is that ridiculous? Do I have five essays to write instead? Am I going to try anyway? Does a bear shit in the woods? 
> 
> Comments are, as usual, welcome! (I promise I'll start replying again soon. But I figure you guys would prefer content over replies when I have to pick)


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